I hesitate to admit this publicly. But I’ve just never been a big Willie fan. I know, heresy, right? And, before you ask, yes, I am a native Texan.

Given that confession, you might understand that when our friends invited us to see Willie and friends at the Outlaw Music Festival last week, I jumped at the invite – but not for Willie. It was only because I would finally get to see Chris Stapleton live in concert. My plan was to leave when Chris left the stage. I mean, I really didn’t need to see the American flag drop down behind the stage to yet another rendition of Whiskey River as Willie came out on stage. The same opening song he’s used at every Willie concert I’ve ever been to.

But a funny thing happened before I could slip out of my seat.  Read more.

 

I looked up on stage to see this old man, I thought of my dad and his dad in their final years, their skin weathered and spotted and wrinkly. I saw a shuffling old man. Not a rebellious, hard-driving, hard-living country superstar. Rather, an old soul who may be a mega star and a millionaire, but is 88 years old and facing the mortality that eventually gets us all.

I saw an old man slightly hunched over, slowly, carefully, making his way across the stage to where two chairs and a set of guitars waited. He sat down with effort, and slowly he picked up a guitar as beat up as he was, the literal hole in its body a metaphor hard to miss. And with his son sitting protectively next to him, he began singing a mellowed version of, yep, Whiskey River.

As the set went on, each song choice became more poignant to me. He has recorded hundreds of songs. Why these particular ones made the set list, I wondered. Did he choose each one because it had special meaning to him? Was he sending a message to his fans with his choices? Was he looking out over this crowd, thinking this could be my last time to do this in Austin?

Toward the end of the night, the stage quieted. And then he strummed a chord, and spoke/sang these words: Why me Lord?

The Kris Kristofferson ballad that many others have covered over the decades. Like the rest of the crowd, I joined in.

 

Why me, Lord? What have I ever done to deserve even ONE of the pleasures I’ve known?

Tell me, what did I ever do that is worth loving you, and all the kindness you’ve shown?

Tell me, Lord, is there a way I can repay?

I’ve wasted it.

So, help me Jesus.

My soul’s in your hands.

 

I’m a gospel music geek. Anyone who’s been around me for Bluegrass Gospel Sunday mornings at our island camp can attest. Sorry, Jean and Phil. But this one, this one is special. I realize now, this is why something made me stay to the very end of Willie’s performance.

As he sang, and we sang, I thought of all the blessings in my life, the people in my life who’ve blessed me, and the things I don’t deserve. I thought of pain, too.

Gratitude washed over me.

And as it did, consumed with emotion, embarrassed that I couldn’t control the tears rolling down my face, I looked over at my friend. I saw her tears too, this young friend who grieves the loss of her mother, who lost her father too young. And yet, has been so very blessed. I looked at my husband, who didn’t understand: my tears were thankful tears for him, too.

I haven’t been able to get those words out of my mind since. As I sat on the deck before sunrise this morning, they came to me again. The stars were bright in the quiet darkness. I thought about how richly blessed my life has been, in so many ways that I don’t deserve. My family, my friends, my home, my work, my health, my education, my church, the miraculous ways he has swooped me from danger. How could I ever repay, I prayed?

I know the Holy Spirit acts in the most unexpected of ways. And as far-fetched as it may sound, right there among a few thousand partying Texans at a country concert, the Holy Spirit sat beside me.

I realize now that Sunday night, it was the Holy Spirit that kept me in that chair just a little bit longer. Kept me there to hear those words of gratitude and confession, those lyrics filled with awe at his great power and mercy, grace and love, even though we don’t deserve it.

Sunday night, Willie chose to sing a song of gratitude.

And I got churched by a red-headed stranger with a fading gravelly voice that someday I’ll hear again but not in Austin.